I groan when she pulls back. But she smiles and says, “I love it when your cock glistens so—because my tongue has been all over it.”
My cock is so hard it stands almost vertical.
She gives it another mischievous lick and asks, “Now, where is that vial of oil?”
With a finger that almost doesn’t shake at all, I point to my nightstand. She retrieves the oil, lubricates my cock to my gasping pleasure, hands the vial to me, and gets up on all fours.
It is an inviting pose for any woman—perhaps because it is how beasts copulate, and men, for all our thousands of years of civilization, remain beasts at heart. But when she raises her bottom and exposes her cunt, when she turns her head toward me, with a gaze that is playfully dirty, yet at the same time starkly hungry—a hunger not only of the body, but of the soul…I have never seen anything nearly so searing.
I cannot look away from her face as I smear oil on her anus, slipping my finger inside to lubricate her passage. She moans her approval, her eyes half closing. “Yes, just like that. Yes.”
I push a second finger inside. She emits a keening cry. “Yes. More. Don’t stop,” she moans as she drops her head, burying her face in the pillows.
I remove my fingers. She grunts in disappointment. “Put them b—”
I turn her around onto her back. “Next time we will do it like animals. But this time I want to see you—all of you. Your cunt”—I caress her damp folds with my other hand—“your nipples, your gorgeous face, your beautiful eyes.”
A sob leaves her lips. Her eyes devour me.
“Besides, if I don’t take out my fingers, how will there be room for my cock?”
Another sob escapes her. “Do it now. Put your cock so far inside me that nothing separates us.”
My heart feels as if it is breaking apart, even as it rises to the clouds.
I ravage her mouth. And then, with my lips still touching hers, I tell her, “I am willing to be branded by you, my love, even if you take an actual branding iron to my back. But do you understand that I will also be branding you? I will be so deep inside you, you will never again be free of me, however long you live.”
She whimpers. I have never seen her so afraid, and yet, at the same time, so alive. “Yes.” Her voice quakes.
“Does that frighten you?”
Her breathing is labored. “Yes.”
I kiss her again, this time tenderly. “Do you still want it?”
She swallows, lifts her ankles high and sets them on my shoulders, exposing every part of herself to me. “Yes, I do still want it—more than ever,” she answers fervently. “Make me yours and I will make you mine.”
My heart pounds with lust, devotion, and hope. I place my cockhead at her newly sleek entrance and push forward. Her body resists, but the next moment I am inside, gripped relentlessly by her flesh, unbearably hot and unbearably tight. A string of imprecations leaves my lips.
Shock and wonder chase across her face even as she trembles. “More. Deeper. Give me everything”.
I am nothing if not made to give her everything. I ease in inch by inch, in constant danger of succumbing to the pleasure, so good, so intense, the wildest physical sensations married to the hottest kindling of the heart.
When I have embedded myself all the way, I tell my beloved, “I’m in deep.”
“I can feel you everywhere inside me.” Her words tumble out in fits and starts. “Exactly how I want to feel.”
I withdraw halfway and ram back in forcefully. “And how does this feel?”
She pants. “As if I’m made of electricity.”
I feel as if I am made of lightning, all power and invincibility. I put my hand on her cunt and make love to her clitoris as I make love to her in that forbidden place, wringing pleasure from her everywhere I touch.
“For the rest of our honeymoon I demand that you fuck me every day, without fail,” she manages between whimpers, moans, and low screams. “I want you to fuck me in carriages, in broom cupboards and coat closets. On days when I am particularly horny you will fuck my mouth. And on days when I am really good and deserving, you will fuck me exactly where you are fucking me now. Do you understand?”
I recognize echoes of words that I’d spoken less than a fortnight and more than an eternity ago. I groan, push two fingers into her cunt, then three, my thumb never leaving her favorite spot as my cock slams again and again into her most sinful place. “And aren’t you glad I discovered this secret weakness of yours?”
She fastens her eyes to mine. “But darling, don’t you see? That is not my secret weakness. You are—and have been for a while.”
I am overcome. I set her ankles down on the bed and hold her tight, so that truly nothing separates us. We kiss endlessly as our bodies continue to meet in furious passion.
And when she does break the kiss, it is to tell me, again and again, “You are mine now. You are mine now. You are mine now.”
“And you are mine.” I growl when I can no longer withstand the pleasure, the words completely true for the first time in my life.
We come together, clinging to each other, our cries of pleasure rising to the rafters.
AFTER CAREFUL CONSIDERATION, I HAVE decided to accept your offer of help on the magazine,” she says much later, her face flushed from the hot steam of the bath.
We are in the tub together. I have been massaging her foot; now I still. “Oh? Do you need an investor?”
“No, an illustrator. And I would not mind if you produce a story once in a while.”
I resume the massage, flattered beyond words. But I tease her, “Because I’m good, or because you plan to pay me nothing at all?”
“Well, if you consider my being on my knees in gratitude nothing at all…”
I grin like an idiot. “It’s not much, but I must start somewhere. Promise you will work me like a dog?”
“I’ll work you hard, then pay you fairly—and often.”
We dissolve into a fit of giggles. I don’t think my heart will ever come down from the sky. How can it, when we are finally making each other laugh?
When she recovers from her mirth, she looks at me curiously, almost shyly. “So what do we do now?”
It is a question I have waited half of my life to answer; I do so without hesitation. “Have tea. Take a walk together. Watch the sunset.”
“Outrageous.“ She caresses my knee, tented just above the water. “Completely outrageous. Normal activities that do not involve bedposts and lubricants?”
I pull her foot toward me and kiss her instep. “Do you think you might be able to enjoy such mundane things?”
She gazes at me a moment and smiles. “Yes, I will enjoy them very well. Very well, indeed.”
About a Gentleman of Indiscretion
A GENTLEMAN OF INDISCRETION is the nom de plume of David Hillsborough, Lord Hastings, himself a fictional character created by Sherry Thomas. But fictional characters sometimes do things that surprise even their creators, such as when Lord Hastings walks up to Miss Fitzhugh in the middle of Ravishing the Heiress, book 2 of the Fitzhugh Trilogy, and declares that he’d like her to publish his erotic manuscript. Tempting the Bride is the book dedicated to their story, but it would not hurt to start from the first book of the trilogy, Beguiling the Beauty, to see the full arc of their relationship.
About Sherry Thomas
SHERRY THOMAS BURST ONTO the scene with Private Arrangements, a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2008. Her sophomore book, Delicious, is a Library Journal Best Romance of 2008. Her next two books, Not Quite a Husband and His at Night, are back-to-back winners of Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA® Award for Best Historical Romance in 2010 and 2011. Lisa Kleypas calls her “the most powerfully original historical romance author working today.”
And by the way, English is Sherry’s second language.
To keep in the loop about Sherry’s upcoming books, sign up for her new release e-mail list at http://www.sherrythomas.com. You can al
so find her on twitter at @sherrythomas, or like her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/authorsherrythomas.
Tempting the Bride: Excerpt
January, 1896
A LOVER’S EMBRACE MADE ONE look favorably upon the entirety of the universe. As Helena Fitzhugh returned to her empty, unlit bedroom, she sighed in contentment.
Or rather, as much contentment as possible, given that her particular lover’s embrace had happened through her chemise and his nightshirt—Andrew was adamant that they not risk a pregnancy. But still, how new and thrilling it was to kiss and touch in the comfort and privacy of a bed, almost enough to pretend that the past five years never happened and that the only thing that separated them were two layers of thin, soft merino wool.
“Hullo, Miss Fitzhugh,” came a man’s voice out of the darkness.
Her heart stopped. Hastings was her brother Fitz’s best friend—but not exactly a friend to her.
“Mistook my room for one of your paramours’?” She was proud of herself. Her voice sounded even, almost blasé.
“Then I would have greeted you by one of their names, wouldn’t I?” His voice was just as nonchalant as hers.
A match flared, illuminating a pair of stern eyes. It always surprised her that he could look somber—intimidating—at times, when he was so frivolous a person.
He lit a hand candle. The light cast his features into sharp relief; the ends of his hair gleamed bronze. “Where were you, Miss Fitzhugh?”
“I was hungry. I went to the butler’s pantry and found myself a slice of pear cake.”
He blew out the match and tossed it in the grate. “And came back directly?”
“Not that it is any of your concern, but yes.”
“So if I were to kiss you now, you would taste of pear cake?”
Trust Hastings to always drag any discussion into the gutter. “Absolutely. But as your lips will never touch mine, that is a moot point, my lord Hastings.”
He looked at her askance. “You are aware, are you not, that I am one of your brothers’ most trusted friends?”
A friendship she’d never quite understood. “And?”
“And as such, when I become aware of gross misconduct on your part, it behooves me to inform your brother without delay.”
She lifted her chin. “Gross misconduct? Is that what one calls a little foray to the butler’s pantry these days?”
“A little foray to the butler’s pantry, is that how one refers to the territory inside Mr. Martin’s underlinens these days?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Should I use the scientific names?”
And wouldn’t he enjoy doing that. But as it was her policy to never let him enjoy himself at her expense, she declared, “Mr. Martin and I are friends of long standing and nothing more.”
“You and I are friends of long standing and—”
“You and I are acquaintances of long standing, Hastings.”
“Fine. Your sister and I are friends of long standing and yet she has never come to spend hours in my room. Alone. After midnight.”
“I went for a slice of cake.”
He cocked his head. “I saw you go into Mr. Martin’s room at forty minutes past midnight, Miss Fitzhugh. You were still there when I left twenty minutes ago. By the way, I also witnessed the same thing happening for the past two nights. You can accuse me of many things—and you do—but you cannot charge me with drawing conclusions on insufficient evidence. Not in this case, at least.”
She stiffened. She’d underestimated him, it would seem. He’d been his usual flighty, superficial self; she wouldn’t have guessed he had the faintest inkling of her nighttime forays.
“What do you want, Hastings?”
“I want you to mend your ways, my dear Miss Fitzhugh. I understand very well that Mr. Martin should have been yours in an ideal world. I also understand that his wife has been praying for him to take a lover so she could do the same. But none of it will matter should you be found out. So you see, it is my moral obligation to leave at first light and inform your siblings, my dear, dear friends, that their beloved sister is throwing away her life.”
She rolled her eyes. “What do you want, Hastings?”
He sighed dramatically. “It wounds me, Miss Fitzhugh. Why do you always suspect me of ulterior motives?”
“Because you always have one. What do I have to do now for your silence?”
“That will not happen.”
“I refuse to think you cannot be bought, Hastings.”
“My, such adamant faith in my corruptibility. I almost hate to disappoint you.”
“Then don’t disappoint me. Name your price.”
His title was quite new—he was only the second Viscount Hastings after his uncle. The family coffer was full to the brim. His price would not be anything denominated in pounds sterling.
“If I say nothing,” he mused, “Fitz will be quite put out with me.”
“If you say nothing, my brother will not know anything.”
“Fitz is a clever man—except when it comes to his wife, perhaps. He will learn sooner or later, somehow.”
“But you are a man who lives in the present, aren’t you?”
He lifted a brow. “That wouldn’t be your way of saying that I am empty–headed and incapable of thinking of the future, would it?”
She didn’t bother with an answer to that question. “It is getting late—not too long now before someone comes to lay a new fire. I don’t want you to be seen in my room.”
“At least I can marry you to salvage your reputation should that happen. Mr. Martin is in no position to do so.”
“That is quite beside the point. Tell me what you want and begone.”
He smiled, a crooked smile full of suggestions. “You know what I want.”
“Please don’t tell me you are still trying to kiss me. Have I not made my lack of interest abundantly clear on this matter?”
“I don’t want to kiss you. However, you will need to kiss me.”
She, kiss him?
“Ah, I see you were hoping to stand quiescent and think of Christian martyrs mauled by the lions of the Colosseum. But as you always tell me, I am a man of unseemly tastes. So you must be the lion, and I the martyr. I shall expect exceptional aggression, Miss Fitzhugh.”
“If I were a lion, I’d find you a piece of rotten fish, not at all to my taste and hardly edible, whereas I’ve just dined on the finest gazelle in the entire savanna. You will excuse me if I fail to summon any enthusiasm to fall upon you.”
“Quite the contrary. I cannot excuse such failure. Not in the least. You will somehow summon the enthusiasm or I shall be on the earliest train headed south.”
“And if I do manufacture enough false zeal to satisfy you?”
“Then I shall say nothing to anyone of Mr. Martin.”
“Your word?”
“Your word that the kiss will be more debauched than any you’ve pressed upon Mr. Martin.”
“You are a pervert, Hastings.”
He smiled again. “And you are just the sort of woman to appreciate one, Miss Fitzhugh, whether you realize it or not. Now, here is what I want you to do. You will seize me by the shoulders, push me against the wall, reach your hand under my jacket—”
“I feel my bile rising.”
“Then you are ready. Onward. I await your assault.”
She grimaced. “How I hate to spoil a perfect record of repelling you.”
“Nothing lasts forever, my dear Miss Fitzhugh. And remember, kiss me passionately. Or you’ll have to do it again.”
She might as well get it over with.
She closed the space that separated them in two big strides and gripped him by the sleeves of his dressing gown. Instead of pushing him backward as he’d instructed—as if she’d allow him to dictate the specifics of her ordeal—she yanked him toward her, fastened her mouth to his, and imagined herself a shark with hundreds of razor–sharp teeth.
; Or perhaps she was a minion of the underworld, her mouth a welter of burning acid and sulfur fumes, devouring his soul, savoring all the idle immoralities he’d committed in his lifetime as a palate cleanser between courses of more substantial sins.
Or a Venus flytrap, full of delicious nectar, but woe was he who thought he could dip a proboscis inside and sample her charms. Instead, she would digest him in place, stupid sod.
Vaguely she sensed something hard and smooth against her shoulder blades. They’d been in the middle of her room; why was she being pressed into a wall? And why, all of a sudden, was she the one being devoured?
The muscles of his arms were tight and hard beneath her hands. His person was as tall and solid as a castle gate. His mouth, instead of tasting like a furnace of greedy lust, was cool and delicious, as if he’d just downed a long draft of well water.
She shoved him away and wiped her lips. She was panting. She didn’t know why she ought to be.
“My,” he murmured. “As ferocious as anything I’ve ever imagined. I was right. You do want me.”
She ignored him. “Your word.”
“I will say nothing of Andrew Martin to anyone. You may depend on that.”
“Leave.”
“Gladly, now that I have what I came for.” He smirked. “Good night, my dear. You were well worth the wait.”
Want more? Click here to read the whole first chapter.
(And did you, dear reader, by any chance spot the little exchange in this excerpt that would find its way into the opening scene of The Bride of Larkspear, no doubt serving as Hastings’s inspiration?)
More Books by Sherry Thomas
The Fitzhugh Trilogy
1. Beguiling the Beauty
2. Ravishing the Heiress, a Publishers Weekly Best Read of Summer 2012
2½. “A Dance in Moonlight,” currently a part of the historical romance anthology Midnight Scandals
3. Tempting the Bride
3½. The Bride of Larkspear
Other Historical Romances
Private Arrangements, a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2008
The Bride of Larkspear: A Fitzhugh Trilogy Erotic Novella Page 8
